The Departure
by studyinsherlock
Summary: Watson races to try to help Sherlock who has been taken to a strange location by a mysterious cabbie. However, all is not as it seems, Watson gets mysterious texts and appears nervous and sweaty, not calm and collected. Watson is working for an usual person and might be trying to bring down Sherlock.
**studyinsherlock**

 _ **The Departure**_

The phone pinged as Watson raced down the stairs, the cool metal of his colt 45 reminded him of how much as a smart ass Sherlock could be. Cold and accurately precise to a fault. Sometimes he really pissed Watson off, his smugness and the way he made John his inferior. The phone pinged again, "Bloody hell" thought John, "if he could just give me ten minutes we could have this situation resolved." The phone pinged again but John ignored it, he had much more pressing things to worry about than Mycroft asking for his bloody freaking hourly updates of where Sherlock was. Who he was interacting with. "Doesn't he know that I'm busy, and have a real fucking job?" mumbled Watson, peeved at the pettiness of the task, but then again £100 per month, was enough to keep Mary happy. The only problem was Mary didn't know the half of it. All the lies (white really, merely a minor matter) would be over soon enough and John giggled with pleasure as he thought of his cold, but calculating hands running down his smooth chest. "His hands caressing MY face" John whispered. "Whose hands? Really John Mary won't like you talking like that, you know it makes her jealous." Mrs. Hudson gave a playful wink to John. " Mrs. Hudson" Watson sternly uttered "he's NOT my boyfriend". "Bloody wanker, crazy and naïve as anyone I've met" Watson thought as he sighed and shook his head. "Just because we LIVE TOGETHER does not mean we date. For the last time, he's my business partner and nothing more. I urge you to put that silly nonsense out of your head!" he angrily whispered. "I have to go" Watson yelped as his phone pinged twice. He glanced at the now lit up screen and quickly pushed the button to turn off the screen. He couldn't afford Mrs. Hudson to know the truth, especially when he'd lied to her this many times, convincing her that he and Sherlock were not dating, which was not entirely untrue. "It's complicated" he shouted, "and can you have some tea on the stove when I return, I expect to be back around 16:35 or so." John didn't care that Mrs. Hudson hated his preciseness and military time, but after all those years slaving in the medical tent, with life and death in his hands, he could hardly afford to work at a leisurely pace and whenever he wanted. Especially now. He grabbed his favorite black leather jacket. He loved the dark colour of his jacket. It reminded Watson of him. Smooth, cool on the outside, but just the right temperature when he was curled up with him. Watson would stroke his pale thin back, feeling the tiny bumps of his spinous processes and his tight levator scapula, erector spinae muscles which were tight on his left side, and his taut posterior neck muscles. Watson made a mental note to ask his osteopathic friend Dr. Process to get him checked out for cervical spine dysfunction, "probably from all the hunching over, being on his bloody Blackberry" Watson pictured with a slight smile crossing his face. "Never mind that" thought Watson, there'd be time to curl up by the fire on the couch with their favorite bottle of wine, or maybe they'd pop over to New Bloomsbury Set, their favorite bar to frequent on the weekends on a Thursday, where they could sip some beer and chat with the frequenters, gossiping and having him dazzle people with his intellect, or as he called it, "my favorite party trick." Whether it was the kind of boots others were wearing to the cologne, and their shirts, he was a master of analysis, and always dazzled Watson.

Snapping back to reality, Watson stumbled outside, slamming the door shut and slid into the path of an oncoming taxi, who abruptly screeched to a halt, sliding a bit on the wet pavement. Watson rushed over the car door, and hopped in, shaking a few excess drops of water onto dark leather seats. "Damn. Bloody brilliant" Watson murmured sarcastically. Never mind, he'd just tip the cabbie a little extra. "Where to?" asked the scruffy cabby, beard gray and tangled, looked like he needed a fuckin comb and some hair die, who looked like he had worked about 8 hours too long today already and smelled like he hadn't showered in a few days. Watson, glanced around and pointed to the addresses on the phone. "Bloody hell, why didn't you just say it" barked the cabbie, "you aren't one of those fucking mutes, are ya?" "I beg your pardon" gasped Watson, "I bloody well am not a fucking mute, thank you very much. I'd prefer to not to say it out loud, is all." "You some sort of fuckin bobby?" pressed the cabbie. "Do I look like the sort? With my cane and limp? Fuck off." Then it hit Watson, maybe Sherlock had been right about the lip, considering he had just ran down two bloody flights of stairs from 221B Baker street. The cabbie said nothing, but just gave Sherlock a long puzzling look. He popped the car's stick to the D position and pulled away from the curb. As he did so, he pulled out his phone, flipped it open and sent a text message, his thumbs tapping away at the tiny black keys, then flipped his phone shut. It really was unnecessary, as he was sure that his boss knew exactly where Watson was. "God bless technology" thought the cabby, although his boss probably only used technology as a backup, he knew Sherlock's exact mannerisms and schedule. It was so accurate, it was like he almost lived with the bloke.

Watson sighed with relief as he felt the cab pull away from the curb. He leaned back and felt the cool metal of the colt 45 brush his outer right thigh and Watson sighed, feeling himself slip back into the dream, lying in bed, touching, exploring each other's bodies. Whispering secrets to each other, plotting their next move. They had to hide these secret meetings, as no one could know that this was more than a business relationship, which it certainly was. They read each other like no one else could, two amazing intellects, but different still. Watson was the kind, compassionate one, he had learned how to put aside his emotions more often, watching sometimes cringing at the insensitivity and almost cruel way that his friend, and lover would meticulously pick apart his subjects. Always analyzing, observing, but doing so incredibly quickly, silently, all the while his dark eyes flashing, dark brown hair flopping on his head, collar half popped, pants wrinkled. "Ironic," thought Watson, for one who was so concerned about appearance and first impressions, he often lacked the common sense to do small little things, like showering, or just washing his hair and styling it with the gorgeous new Paul Mitchell Clean Cut or Reformer that Watson had just bought him for his birthday last Thursday.

Sherlock flipped open his Blackberry and pulled up the map, waited a few seconds for the internet to catch up, and quickly glanced through his inbox, scanning for new messages. He saw a few new ones from Gordon and his other homeless spy network, but he quickly deleted them with a quick tap* tap* of his long, delicate, pale fingers. He made a mental note to ask Watson about a phenomenon he had run across while browsing WebMD for signs and symptoms of asphyxiation. Something called Raynaud's, he'd be sure to ask Watson later that evening when they had tea. He smiled and guessed that Watson probably had asked Mrs. Hudson to make a fresh batch of tea, which Sherlock appreciated as he hated associating with the dull landlord. Sherlock tapped the small map app and quickly pressed the middle button. The screen went blurry for precisely 1.35 seconds, Sherlock had timed it many times before. The screen zoomed in to the tiny pulsing light blue dot, which was slowly making its way down Baker street. Sherlock felt a quick twinge of panic and fear. Why was John running a few minutes behind schedule? Had something happened to him? After all, Moriarty had personally notified Sherlock about watching John and Sherlock himself more closely, as of late. Sherlock had laughed the suggestion off, knowing precisely that Moriarty had played this tactic before to try to make Sherlock more conservative and keep him cooped up in his dusty littered apartment.

Watson too, had almost simultaneously checked his phone and pulled up his map application and saw that fortunately the blue pin was pulsing but hadn't moved. It was still on the street outside the school buildings. Watson felt his heart skip a beat as his phone pinged and he saw a text from SH. It was very short and simply said, "All good here. Please hurry though, not sure how much longer I can stall." Watson tapped back, "OMW. Got hung up chatting with Mrs. Hudson." Watson darkened his screen and tipped his head back and stared at the dark, cloudy sky overhead, interrupted by bright flashes of light from the street lamps they passed. He felt better but still worried. "Sherlock never texts, he's far too proud and intelligent to ask for help this soon," pondered Watson. "It's not possible he could have found out, or could he have done so?" He was Sherlock –fucking-Holmes after all. That annoying prick.

Meanwhile, a tapping at the window caught Sherlock's attention. The cabbie stared nodded his head and said, "ready Mr. Holmes? I tink you're going to love this game." Sherlock knew John would soon be here and he had nothing to worry, but still, it was never like John to be late. Always on time, almost annoyingly precise.

Sherlock had been worried about John lately. His lack of willingness to make direct eye contact with him, his almost, well not shifty, but strange behavior whenever Sherlock was around. He seemed nervous and Sherlock had noticed that John spent more time on the phone than usual lately, and when in bed John wasn't being the leader as much as he normally was. John was the strong sensuous one, making the moves while Sherlock played the role of the dutiful follower, letting John explore his pale, thin body, all it's nicks and crannies, his pleasure centers with a touch so firm but gentle that it could only belong to a doctor. Sherlock made a mental note to look at John's anatomy books next time he was bored.

Watson's cab driver sped through the streets, almost as if he knew that Watson was running behind, but he had no way of knowing what or whom Watson was going to see. Watson felt his phone vibrate twice and saw it light up with a text message from JM that said, "Flame mate weighty soak shave comedy debut stake scared." And then another: "Come over when it's done."

Watson smiled. "Bloody hell." The fucker had put his location in a code. "Doesn't James know I'm not stupid enough to have messages lying around for Sherlock to read? I can delete things off my phone and my memory is quite good."

James, or as Sherlock called him, Moriarty slid his phone back in his pocket and laughed gleefully. "Silly, stupid, ignorant, childish Sherlock. Couldn't he see the obvious right in front of him?" That had been the brilliance of his and John's plan. Be so direct in giving Sherlock clues that Sherlock would over analyze it like he did with every-fucking-thing. "Sometimes the best laid plans are the simplest." John had played his part perfectly, and he looked forward to a nice wine in front of their fire at John's place, now that Sherlock would be gone. Perhaps even they'd be a little adventurous and sneak down to New Bloomsbury Set and have a pint with John.

At that moment Sherlock stepped out of the cab, tentatively closed the car door trudged forward, after the slightly overweight "B.M.I. most likely 27" thought Sherlock based on his waist-to-hip ratio thought Sherlock. He didn't realize how he was simply a number too.


End file.
